TITLE: The Boy of Tomorrow
COUPLE: Claire/Zach (Clach)
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: To win the battle of the future, Claire must save one last ally with powers beyond compare.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters from Heroes and am not making any profit with them. They all belong to NBC. If they were mine, then I guess I'd make Zach and Claire a couple and wouldn't let Thomas Dekker leave for „The Sarah Connor Chronicles" (because I would have hired him with a contract and not per episode).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: No Zach yet – and therefore not romance.

The Boy Of Tomorrow (2/?)
by Dare

It was not a dark and stormy night.

Despite that, Claire Bennet could find any sleep.

"I am Henery the Eighth I am!" the girl sang in which could only be called a truly horrible interpretation of the song. "Henery the Eighth! I am!" She was sitting in Claire's armchair and demonstrated a remarkable endurance – if her screams had been heard in the real world, there would be a lot of smashed glass everywhere. She was like a siren – with a build-in megaphone.

Claire shot up in bed. "Okay! Okay, okay!" She had already toyed with the idea of sticking a pen deeply into her ear and removing her internal ear, but the following silence was only of cursorily nature, as the girl continued to sing within her head. "Okay, I get it! What do you want?"

The girl stopped and grinned. "First things first." She cleared her throat. "Hi, my name is Magdalena Carpenter. I would shake your hand if I wasn't just a karmaic appearance created by your consciousness."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, many things, really, but mostly, that you're officially schizophrenic, now. Congrats," Magdalena said, while dangling her legs.

"Are you a ghost?" Claire asked.

"No, I'm a soul," Magdalena answered. "I don't do that whole Wohooo-thing and walk around half-transparent with a white cloak over my head. Also, I'm still attached to a body."

Claire stared at her. "Are you comatose?"

Magdalenass eyebrows rose to her hairline. "Do I look like Reese Witherspoon to you? No, I'm very alive, thankyouverymuch," she huffed.

"What do you want from me?" Claire asked. She felt a headache coming – and sleep deprivation was finally taking it's toll. "Isn't there anyone else you can bug?"

"Unfortunately, no, "Magdalena said. "This task is kinda classified and only you have clearance, so to say." She looked at Claire in the darkness. Her black eyes were sparkling with sympathy. "I want you to help me save someone. Someone very important. In about a week, your holidays are going to start – you are going to run away from home."

"I beg your pardon?" Claire asked incredulously.

"Everything is prepared, don't worry," Magdalena said. "You have to do it. You don't have any choice. Otherwise, I'll stay with you forever – for the rest of your very long life."

"Can't someone else --?"

"No."

"Do you know who my father is?"

"Yes. This is one of the main reasons why we are going to run away," Magdalena said. Her expression changed to something Claire couldn't interpret. Earnest, a bit afraid, anxious, and very serious. "Do you know what a human is made of?"

"Dirty water, essentially?" Claire answered, dryly, trying to hide her surprise about the change of topic.

Magdalena laughed. "I was aiming at the more poetic version: Enough Strength to built a home, enough Time to hold a child, enough Love to break a heart. Otherwise the Boy of Tomorrow will never exist."

"What Boy of Tomorrow?" Claire asked, but Magdalena was gone; vanished into thin air, as if she had never existed.

She was alone. Finally. She buried herself in her pillows and stared towards the window. It didn't open and no-one climbed in. While tumbling towards sleep, she thought about what Magdalena had said.

Something was wrong about the last part of it, but she couldn't remember the right version ...

Claire managed to forget about Magdalena. At least, almost. There were lots of people dressed like Madgalena in her high school – most of them were older, but she always twitched when she saw one of them. When they turned around to wave at Claire post-un-popularity-contest, she waved back in relief, realizing they weren't Magdalena.

On the first morning of her holidays, she woke up in her room and Magdalena was sitting on her desk, legs dangling. She smiled – her outfit had changed considerably; she was now wearing a pink get-up that vaguely resembled a Japanese school uniform the geek boys at Claire's school were so fond of.

"Ready?" she asked.

Claire fell back onto her bed, and groaned. This was so not happening.

"Today your day, your mountain is waiting, so get on your way," Magdalena quoted, being sickenly happy. "You have to get up, sunshine."

"Go away, you don't exist," Claire grumbled. Then she sat up. "What are we going to do today anyway?"

Magdalena smiled. "Well, first, you are going to shower, of course, and then, dress and then --" When she noticed Claire giving her the evil eye, she cleared her throat. "Okay, okay. You will dress into something regular, like Jeans, a baseball cap or something and then, we are going to go on an excavation near the church."

"You want me to dig up bones?" Claire asked.

"No – we won't go all six feet down, just a mere inch or two ... or three. Hurry, sweety, okay?"

Claire, after pointing out that she was no-one's sweety, trudged towards the bathroom, showered and changed into blue jeans and an olive-coloured tank top. Magdalena insisted on the baseball cap and after some negotiations, they settled on a baker boy cap. Claire picked up a small trowel from the garage and put it inside her jacket's pocket.

Wandering towards the church, Claire shook her head. "I can't believe I'm doing that."

"Lots of people are talking to voices," Magdalena assured her, walking right next to her. "Only difference between them and you is that they are mentally ill and you are not."

Claire snorted. "I bet their voices are telling them the exactly same thing."

Magdalena laughed. "I guess so," she said.

They reached the gate of the cemetery and Claire pushed the black heavy gate until it reluctantly opened. No one was there – at least no one alive; and Magdalena lead her through the army of stone crosses until they reached a single one at the back of the field of the dead. It was halfway clad with ivy and moos, and when Claire removed parts of it, she could read the name of the inhabitant.

Michael Banks
1902 – 1962

"Who is he?" Claire asked.

"An old and deceased friend," Magdalena answered. "On the back of the cross under the triangular stone is where you have to dig."

Claire looked around if she was all alone, then hid behind the large stone cross and started to remove the gray triangular stone someone had placed into the ground. She started to dig – and just as Magdalena had promised, she trowel touched something that sounded metallic.

After some minutes, she managed to uncover a small, rusty box. After blowing the dust from it, she examined it more carefully and shook it. Several objects were in it, at least one of them was made of metal, like the box itself.

Claire looked at Magdalena. "When was this placed here?"

"Oh ... I don't know. For some time now."

Claire leaned against the stone cross, placed the box onto her lap and opened it carefully. She found two items: one of them was a key, and another was a yellowish letter with her name on it.

She opened it and her eyebrows rose so high, they almost wandered up her head and down her neck. The date at the top of the letter said: 5th November, 1959.

Her eyes wandered over the fine, black handwriting.

To Claire Bennet, concerning The Boy Of Tomorrow.

Dear Claire.

I am truly sorry we cannot meet in person. My only excuse for this is that I have died in the meantime, a fact which I deeply regret and would have changed if I were in the position to do so. I have dreamt often of you, my dear Claire, and think I know you and love you as if you were my own daughter. You are such an extraordinary human being and I have often watched with regret the extend of your self-hatred, which is completely unnecessary, I can assure you. But, as time goes by, maybe, you will find out by yourself. Despite this, I am sending you my key and my best wishes. The key will open safe deposit box number 1013 in the local concourse – Magdalena, who is with you right now – will show you the way. The contents will help you cut your own path more easily. My wishes will maybe provide you with good luck; otherwise they are completely useless, I am afraid. I am sending them anyway, because even in the world you are living in, forty years away from the world I live in, there is still the concept of destiny and karma and the possibility to change both. Please, do anything, try anything, dare anything, to save The Boy Of Tomorrow. He is worth everything and so much more, as you will find out.

Until we meet again,
I'll watch you and wish you all the best, all the luck of two worlds.

With best and loving regards,

Michael Bartholomew Banks, Esq.

PS. I trust that Magdalena has already informed you of the things that make us human. The last line is wrong, as you have suspected. He knows the correct wording of it.

Claire looked up. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny and her voice trembled. She waved with the letter towards Magdalena. "Who is he?"

"He is a bit like you – an Englishmen who has spent his entire life – which was filled with it's own extraordinary circumstances – in London, and insisted to be buried here. He had the ability to travel to the future with his spirit and see what it was like," Magdalena answered, sadly.

Claire eyed her warily. "You knew him."

Magdalena shrugged. "He would sometimes visit my dreams when I was younger. He was – well, extraordinary." She smiled and sighed. "And now, we have some work to do."

"The concourse," Claire said.

"The old concourse," Magdalena nodded. "A miracle they haven't torn it down yet."

Claire refilled the small hole and placed the triangular stone into it. Then, she straightened her posture and took a deep breath. Some small sheep-like clouds hurried over the otherwise flawless, blue sky and the sun was no more than a large, golden coin.

It was the perfect day, Claire realized, as she walked home.

The perfect day ... maybe to change the world.

End (2/?)